Page 4 of When He Plays

Charlotte nodded. “Yes, I can see that you’re fantastic. A real people person.”

“You have no idea. Wait until you see me engage in contract negotiations.” His attention shifted back to a very watchful Morris. “Contract killer negotiations,” Logan clarified.

“OhmyGod,” Morris breathed.

“Ready to hitch that ride out of town?” Logan asked.

“You’ll never see me again.” A fast promise.

“I hope not.” Mild tone but dark words as Logan added, “Because if I do, Morris, you’re a dead man.”

“You should have taken me in with you, boss.” A deep rumble from the limo driver. He waited near the long, sleek, black ride, his arms crossed over his chest and his shoulders hunched.

“No worries, Barney.” Logan slapped him on the shoulder and motioned toward Charlotte. “I had my new PA with me. Charlotte totally kicks ass and takes names. Or maybe she tases ass and doesn’t ask for names. Effective, either way.”

Logan Sterling thought he was funny. Clearly.

He was not funny. Clearly. Based on her observations, he was dangerous, potentially unhinged, and he had a taste for violence.

The limo driver—Charlotte knew his name was actually Barnabas Bailey—tossed her a suspicious glance before he hauled open the vehicle’s back door. “She doesn’t look particularly dangerous.”

Logan laughed. A rich, warm sound. “Appearances are deceptive with her. I’m telling you, she’s gonna earn herself a raise within a week.” He motioned for her to enter the limo first.

Her high heels clicked over the broken pavement. After murmuring a quick thanks to the driver, Charlotte climbed inside.

Driver. Bodyguard. Hired gun. She was pretty sure that Barnabas was all three of those things. When the CIA had peered into his past, they’d actually found links to him being a former mercenary. Like that was reassuring.

Logan pulled the door shut after he entered, not waiting for Barnabas, then Logan sprawled—rather broadly and a bit too close—next to Charlotte.

The back of the limo glowed with a soft, warm light. A fully stocked bar waited to the right, and when Barnabas began to drive a few moments later, soothing music filled the air. Her eyebrows rose at the music. Not like she’d expected Logan to go for Mozart. She’d pictured him as more of a hard rocker.

“Barney,” he groused. “Playing his shit again.”

She didn’t think that Mozart was actually, uh, shit. Quite the opposite.

Her gaze darted to the front of the vehicle. The tinted privacy screen was fully in place. So Barnabas was the one who liked the classical music?

“Don’t worry, sweetness. He can’t see us or hear us. So you can spill all sorts of juicy spy secrets, and I’m the only one who would know.” His knee brushed against her leg.

With one finger, she poked at his offending knee, then deliberately moved it away from her person.

“Don’t like being touched?” A careful question from Logan.

“I’m merely keeping things professional.” That had sounded prissy. Too prim. She nearly winced at her own words. But it wasn’t like she wanted to tell the man…

When you touch me, I feel this heat rush through my blood. A heat. A…yearning. It seems to surge through me and my heart races, and my breath comes a little faster, and I want to get a bit closer to you.

Nope. Not going to say those words. She had a job to do. A mission to accomplish. She could not afford to be sidetracked.

It was all Logan’s fault, of course. The man was entirely, ridiculously too sexy. All that thick, tousled, dark hair. Those intense brown eyes. That hard jaw, lined with stubble. That strong nose—a nose that appeared to have been broken at least twice. And even the still red scar on his right cheek made Logan appear dangerously attractive. A scar shouldn’t have made him more gorgeous. And yet, somehow, it did.

“Professional.” Logan seemed to taste the word. His lips twisted. Sensual, sculpted lips.

Stop noticing his lips!

“That’s an interesting term. Kinda…boring, don’t you think?”

She could feel the heat from his body reaching out to surround her. His crisp scent teased her nose, and her gaze had just dropped to his hands. His hands pressed flat against his thighs. His broad, muscled, jean-clad thighs.